Contributor – Page 9 – Modern Creative Life

January 2, 2018

Hope is Never Lost by Dona Murphy

I had a client who was very anxious about the development of a relationship say to me, “I know you’re always honest with me. I just don’t want to have false hope.” That set me back a little – to me, hope is never “false” at least not as I define hope. Hope is dynamic and evolving.

Hope is not an attachment to a specific outcome to the exclusion of all other possibilities.

I watched a beloved relative of mine battle cancer for several years. His hopes and ours – our desires – changed form and expression as circumstances changed. Life happened. First we hoped for his disease to go into full remission. Then we hoped for a good quality of life for as long as possible, and finally we hoped for a peaceful death with dignity.

None of those hopes were false.

The false belief that only one person, situation or outcome is the best and most desirable leads us to give up hope. The belief that only one specific thing will make us happy can render a situation hopeless. We mistake our preferences which are temporary and mutable as the absolute best thing for us.

We forget that our conscious, ego-minds operate from a limited perspective. We lack objectivity. Our conscious minds see through a narrow filter. We have the power to create and influence our circumstances. We define our own experiences. But we forget that we are neither all-knowing nor all-powerful. Our ego-minds need and want control. We forget that we are co-creators. The divine spark of creative power within us doesn’t guarantee lives free of pain and loss. Pain and pleasure, gain and loss, happiness and sadness are the birthright of every life.

The Universe (the All-Mind) contains and resolves our experiences through unity, oneness, wholeness.

Another way we fall into error is that sometimes we don’t realize all the possibilities that are open to us. If anything most of us make the mistake of dreaming too small; we don’t ask for or expect too much, but too little. We cheat ourselves by fixating on something that might represent a fraction of all that could be ours. What we long for may not serve our highest good. It might disappoint us rather than bringing us the joy and fulfillment we desire. Having hope allows us to receive in ways that can far exceed our expectations.

It’s not hope that is false, it’s the limits we impose either on ourselves or on the Universe. There are limits not to what we can desire or hope for but to what we can control. The Universe is limitless. All we need is to gratefully and graciously receive. Falsehoods eliminated.

I know these things: “What is yours will not pass you by” (anonymous) and “What you’re seeking is seeking you” (Wayne Dyer).

You will hope. If you claim your desire knowing that its own fulfillment is contained within it, you will not hope in vain. Hope is asking for what you desire and then opening yourself to receive what the Universe gives you. If you will hope, you will find your desires fulfilled. Hope is an invitation to believe and trust. Believe that you are part of a limitless, loving Universe. Trust that the Universe always provides exactly what you need, exactly when you need it.

If you will, hope.

About the Author: Dona Murphy

Dona Murphy is the owner of Destiny Tarot. She lives and works in Lake Bluff Illinois as a Tarot reader, Intuitive Counselor and Life Coach. Dona combines her metaphysical and spiritual studies, natural gifts and real-world experience to help her clients solve problems and live their best lives. As she says, “The cards don’t predict your future, they help you create it”.

December 21, 2017

The Puppies by Patricia Wellingham-Jones

Cleaning house in her nightgown
Donna spots me on my morning walk,
leans out the door and yells,
“Hey, wanna see the babies?”
I do, of course .

We stand over the nursery,
gaze at the ten huddled scraps
of multi-colored poodle puppyhood,
barely four days old,
wearing teeny collars.

First time mama Paris
is surprisingly cool, supplies faucets
as needed to ten seeking mouths,
tolerates giants looming
and fingers poking at her children.

Donna coos, I try hard not to,
and grandpa Shadow keeps an eye on us all.
As he nudges my hand, black and white
stuffed toy in his mouth, Donna says,
“He wanted his own baby
so I bought him one.”

She looks down at her flowered gown
and bare feet, grimaces then says,
“Forgive the mess.”
I don’t see anything
but beautiful babies.

About the Author: Patricia Wellingham-Jones

Patricia Wellingham-Jones is a widely published former psychology researcher and writer/editor. She has a special interest in healing writing, with poems recently in The Widow’s Handbook (Kent State University Press). Chapbooks include Don’t Turn Away: poems about breast cancer, End-Cycle: poems about caregiving, Apple Blossoms at Eye Level, Voices on the Land and Hormone Stew.

December 17, 2017

Sunday Sensations: The First Christmas Without You

I’m slipping into the holidays sideways this year.

When you experience tremendous loss, the whole world functions differently for awhile. Grief is a weird sensation. It’s simultaneously universally known and deeply personal. If you’ve lost someone dear to you, you know how it feels, but you can’t know how someone else feels. Your own grief is picking through a town that you haven’t been to in years. It feels familiar, but the signs have changed. You never walk the same street twice.

So bring on the presents, hot chocolate and cheer. Let me touch things my mother touched. It’s all familiar, but foreign.

If my mom hadn’t been so great at Christmas it may be a bit easier on my heart. Everything I do echos her. There’s an echo here as we make cookies and my husband asks why I put the sugar on after bringing them out of the oven. “Because mom did it.” There’s a wisp of her as I hang ornaments she crafted years ago. If I close my eyes and listen I can hear her as I wrap gifts for my dad.

Mom is Christmas. It’s as if the holiday was made just for her — her creativity, her skills, her belief in Jesus, and her heart for others all came to life at the end of the year. From presents to tree to cookies and decorations, she was the event planner and we her happy elves. I ached every year to put out her Precious Moments nativity set. Every tradition cemented my love for Christmas and for our faith.

I’ve had the ache of loss at Christmas before. Losing my grandparents early and watching my friends travel from grandparent to grandparent was hard. Seeing a tree decorated in all blue still conjure up images of my Grandma Shirley singing “I’ll have a blue Christmas” over her petite live Christmas tree. I remember the story of my Grandpa’s favorite childhood Christmas. But this is different.

This is not to say that my life is full of despair. Loneliness is hemmed in by family and friends. Puppy kisses and kitten purrs sooth the rough spots. There are many happy moments of peace, kindness and love. There’s simply something about grief that’s so personal, and (at times) a bit selfish.

So here’s to all of us coming to the holidays sideways this year. Our journeys are different, but similar. The lights are a bit dimmer, but they still shine brightly. We drink deeply of the sweet and bitter. We will love. So cry. Rest. Love. Christmas may not be as magical as it has been, but they won’t always be like this.

About the author: Tabitha Grace Challis

Tabitha is a social media strategist, writer, blogger, and professional geek. Among her published works are the children’s books Jack the Kitten is Very Brave and Machu the Cat is Very Hungry, both published under the name Tabitha Grace Smith. A California girl (always and forever) she now lives in Maryland with her husband, son, and a collection of cats, dogs, and chickens. Find out more about her on her Amazon author page or follow her on Twitter: @Tabz.

December 15, 2017

Snow Day by Molly Totoro

Let me set the scene.

It is a dark, cold Wednesday morning. The alarm rings for the second time. I dare not press the snooze option again for fear I will oversleep. I brace myself before turning back the warm flannel sheets – allowing the cold air to hit my legs as I swing them over the side of the bed. I’m partially awake now.

I grope for my glasses resting on the nightstand. I put them on and check my phone: 5:30am. Time to start the day.

I shuffle my way through the hall and down the steps. The pot of coffee I set to a timer the night before is ready. I pour myself a cup and head to my special seat in the family room. The Basset barely moves to make room, but I’m appreciative of his efforts to warm my spot. I find the remote and turn on the morning news.

… you will find a listing of school closings scrolling at the bottom of the screen.

I’m now fully awake. I watch the names of schools make their way across the television. Blue Valley… Bonner Springs… It will be a while before they reach the Os.

I try to keep my excitement under control. After all, these are the last weeks before the end of the semester. There is so much more work to do before finals. But…

Edgerton… Excelsior Springs…

I am prepared for class. All grading is complete. Lesson plans are in order. Photocopies made. The students are working on long-term writing projects. If we don’t have school, they will know what to do at home.

Kearny … Lee’s Summit…

So many school districts are closed. There’s about three inches of snow on the ground now, making rush hour traffic slow and treacherous. News anchors are advising all to stay inside if possible. The forecast is for another six inches before nightfall.

Peculiar… Olathe…

I let out an audible squeal. The basset gives me a look of disdain and returns to his slumber. A snow day!!

I’m not sure why I’m so fond of these special occasions. I am usually mature and reserved, but snow days bring out my inner child.

Perhaps it’s because I grew up in Texas. I never experienced snow until we moved to Connecticut when I was twelve. And that first snow was magical. Rather than hard, pelting raindrops, soft silent flakes floated around me. The drab gray ground transformed into an unblemished swirl of white. Rain told me to stay safe indoors while the snow beckoned me to come outside and experience winter joy.

Of course, I understand the scientific cause: cold temperatures and moisture in the clouds create ice crystals that stick together and form snow before falling to the ground. The valid explanation, however, does not diminish the magic.

While I no longer choose to spend my snow days outside building snowmen or engaging in friendly snowball fights, I do relish the joy of an unexpected day off.

I light a fire in the fireplace and enjoy sipping an extra cup of hot coffee. Because my school work is complete, the day belongs to me – to do as I see fit. I refuse to sully the hours with mundane chores like laundry or housekeeping. This day is reserved for spontaneous creativity.

A portion of the morning hours will be spent reading that novel I bought months ago but never found the time to open. Today is the day to escape to that literary world.

Around noon I will inspect the refrigerator to see what I can make for dinner. I find enough leftovers and vegetables for a nice pot of soup and some melted cheese biscuits.

The afternoon hours may be spent on a craft project, like catching up on family scrapbooks or creating greeting cards for the upcoming year. If I’m in a particular culinary mood, I may scour the cookbooks for a new dessert recipe to try.

The leisurely day is bound to pass quickly. Before I know it, the dinner dishes will be washed and put away, and I will begin thinking about school tomorrow.

The magic of a snow day, however, is not limited to one 24-hour time period. The spontaneous day off is simply the catalyst to re-awakening our creativity. Once we open that novel, take out those craft supplies, or delve deeper into a personal project, we look for ways to continue.

We discover a ten-minute pocket of time between cleaning the kitchen and starting the nighttime routine. We set the alarm thirty minutes earlier to give us some quiet uninterrupted space. We turn off the comedy re-runs in favor of me-time.

I’m not sure who enjoys a snow day more: students, teachers, or the basset.

About the Author: Molly Totoro

Molly Totoro is a Connecticut Yankee currently residing in the Midwest with her husband and trusty basset. While Molly retired from full-time teaching in 2014 to pursue her writing dreams, she continues to work with students to achieve their writing potential. Molly recently published her first book, Journaling Toward Wholeness: A 28-Day Plan to Develop a Journaling Practice with the hope of inspiring others to experience the health benefits of writing their inner thoughts.

Connect with Molly at her blog, My Cozy Book Nook and on social media: FaceBook – Twitter – Instagram– Pinterest

December 12, 2017

Him by Kolleen Harrison

I watch him as he talks to himself, laughs, and talks some more.

I watch him as he attempts to line up his glass just perfectly in the
cupboard – over and over and over again.

I watch him as he stares out the window with a big smile plastered upon
his face, wondering what it is that is making him smile so wide.

I watch him in his nervousness and anxiety as someone he doesn’t know
says “hello” to him.

I watch him with love.
I watch him with admiration.
I watch him with curiosity.
I watch him and wonder if he knows just how amazing he really is.
I watch him grateful he is mine.

About the Author: Kolleen Harrison

Kolleen Harrison is a creative living in the beautiful Central Coast of California. She is the Founder of LOVEwild and Founder/Maker of Mahabba Beads. Her passions lie in nurturing her relationship with God, loving on her happily dysfunctional family, flinging paint in her studio, dancing barefoot, making jewelry (that is so much more than “just jewelry”), and spreading love and kindness wherever and whenever she can. You can find her popping in and out at LOVEwild.org or MahabbaBeads.com

December 8, 2017

Eric Bogle by Fran Hutchinson

i fell a little bit in love last night
with a small and weary man
who took my hand, and smiled
right then i felt much like a child must feel on that first day
it learns real life’s not as grand as dreams
but better, anyway…

idols only tarnish when they’re shelved, and cased in glass
but handled well, and passed around
and battered for a spell,
they start to gleam, from deep within
until they seem to glow
with a small and weary sort of light

and so,
deprived of grand and glassy dreams,
i fell a little bit in love last night.

About the Author: Fran Hutchinson

Currently a resident of New Bedford, MA, Fran Hutchinson experienced a “poetic incarnation” while embedded in the 80’s folk scene in Boston. Occupied variously as live calendar producer for WGBH’s Folk Heritage, contributing editor at the Folk Song Society of Greater Boston’s monthly Folk Letter, artist manager and booking agent, and occasional concert producer, she was surrounded by exceptional music and musicians, including those she had long listened to and admired. The result was a rich source of inspiration for verse, of which she took full advantage.

No longer writing poetry, Fran has recently been the recipient of a surgically altered back and two new knees, and spends her time reading and listening to music (natch), texting and emailing long-distance friends, and hanging with her posse at the Community center.

December 7, 2017

Rays of Sunshine through a Glass filled with Amber by Clay Robeson

The neighborhood in San Francisco called “The Bayview” is the part of the city where you don’t really believe you’re actually in San Francisco until you catch sight of the skyline between buildings, or see the Bay Bridge peeking over a warehouse. It’s industrial. It’s relatively flat. It’s mostly a grid, at least to the east of 3^rd Street, where the street names cycle alphabetically from Amador to Yosemite and start again at Armstrong and make their way to Meade. I’m not quite sure why Z gets no love, but much like Z, Bayview gets very little love in the grander scheme of San Francisco.

Home to Candlestick Point (and the formerly Candlestick Park), Bayview was at one time known as South San Francisco, until South San Francisco incorporated and took that name in 1908. It has seen its share of coal power plants, sprawling meat processing facilities, ship yards, and violent crime throughout it’s history, and is still widely considered the most dangerous neighborhood in San Francisco by some.

Revitalization of Bayview started ten years ago with the opening of the T – Third Street Muni line, connecting Bayview (and beyond) with the rest of San Francisco. In the intervening years, the “Third Street Corridor” has seen an explosion of restaurants, housing, and general overall awesomeness: warehouses replaced by apartments, shuttered storefronts reopening with new shops and restaurants, and areas rezoned to allow for new industries to get a foothold in an otherwise inaccessible city.

Seven Stills Brewery & Distillery, Bayview, San Francisco, CA

But even with all this revitalization, at dusk Bayview can be a little forbidding. And that was why, on a cold (for San Francisco) February evening, I felt a little nervous as I was walking from a MUNI stop in Bayview towards a place I had never been before. A friend had recently written an article around this business’ struggles getting their block rezoned so they could actually sell their wares. The business themselves had recently taken over the Instagram feed of one of the community newsletters I followed and proved to be quite entertaining. And so, when they announced they were having their first “First Friday” event, I decided I needed to support a community business and show up.

Beer making equipment.

I wandered in through the big, roll-up, loading dock door, eschewing the actual front door mostly because I didn’t notice it thanks to the music coming out of the big door. At the far end of the large warehouse space, I could see the fermentation vats and the mash tun. Closer to me was a bar with several taps and a sign that said “Beer Bar.” Closer still, were several tables with padded barrels for chairs. And finally, to my right, was what had piqued my curiosity. The Whiskey Bar.

The still where dreams are made.

I had arrived much earlier than my friends, so I decided to start gently. I ordered a beer, and sat down at one of the long tables. A younger man with his dog sat at the other end, also enjoying a glass. He asked me if it was my first time here, and I nodded and started in on my raison d’être for the evening. You see, in my youth I had been an avid homebrewer. The art and science of brewing had fascinated me (and still does). One of the things I had always wanted to try was distilling the beers I made into liquor, but I was never able to thanks to those pesky laws that prevent home distilling. So, when I read about Seven Stills, and the fact that they made their own beer, and then turned those beers into whiskey, I got really excited, and that spark of wonder from my youth returned.

The young man smiled and introduced himself as Tim, one of the owners of Seven Stills. It was the start of a beautiful friendship.

Liquid Amber

That was February 3, 2017. Prior to that date, I had very limited experience with Whiskey. Most of it was from my father’s Scotch cabinet, and to be frank, I was particularly nonplussed. So, when my friend James arrived, we sat down at the Whiskey Bar and ordered a flight from Christine. That was the start of the second and third beautiful friendships of the evening. The second being with Christine, who was delighted to spend some extra time elaborating on what she was placing before us despite the growing First Friday crowd.

A flight.

The third friendship is more of an obsession. And that one is with the Whiskey that Seven Stills creates. It’s not your 15 to 20 year barrel aged, peat tinged, smoky, oaky, or any other-y liquor. Tim and his partner Clint start with a very specific craft beer, and distill that down into a whiskey with a very specific flavor profile.

Now, this is the point in my raving about Seven Stills where my friends usually stop me and say, “Wait, you can make whiskey out of beer?”

Whiskey, aging in barrels.

All whiskey is made from beer, actually. It’s just that most distillers don’t call the first part of the process “making beer.” But that is what they’re doing. Extracting the sugars from grains and adding yeast to ferment those sugars into alcohol. Most distillers have their own “mash” recipe that the rest of the world never sees, nor likely even hears about unless they go on a distillery tour. They distill the alcohol from the wort that is fermented after the grain is strained off from the mash. It’s the aging process and type of barrel that gives typical whiskey the unique flavors and colors of a specific label.

Barrels provide whiskey its color, and some of its sweetness.

What Tim and Clint are doing is starting the whiskey making process with marketable beers first, giving the resulting distillations interesting flavor profiles before they even hit the barrel. Aging still gives the whiskey it’s color and adds to those flavor profiles, but each Seven Stills release is complex and robust, without the 5+ year aging process.

There are moments when the sunlight hits the bottles just right…

The Seven Stills team doesn’t limit themselves to their own beers, either. Along with their core releases, there have been a few collaborations and several “Experimental Series” releases with other breweries, too. So, as I sat there, making my way through my first Seven Stills flight, I discovered this whole new world of flavor that I didn’t realize was out there. The fact that these two guys had tapped into something I had been fantasizing about for years, and were not only doing it, but doing it well, gave me hope that that maybe some of my OTHER ideas weren’t so bad, either. It was inspiring.

“Sea Farmer” – Seven Stills 2017 collaboration using Fieldwork Brewing’s Sea Farmer IPA.

Half way through that first flight, I stopped Christine and demanded that she sign me up for the Seven Stills Founder’s Club, so I had premium access to EVERYTHING they did from that point forward. And let me tell you, I have not regretted that decision for a moment.

Every flight is different, depending on which of their releases are available.

In the ten months since, I have stepped out of my alcohol comfort zone and tasted the world beyond what I thought I knew. And I get it now. And every time I sit at a counter and try a new whiskey, I hold the glass up to the light and laugh a little at January me, who had no idea at the wonder he had been missing for so long. I hope I keep on finding new things to challenge me and open my mind like Seven Stills did.

About the author: Clay Robeson

Clay is an improvisor, photographer, puppeteer and part-time goat herd living in San Francisco. He likes to make things.

To learn more about Clay, or find his social media links, go here: https://about.me/ClayR.

To learn more about Seven Stills visit www.SevenStillsOfSF.com.

December 5, 2017

A Palatable Passion Rediscovered by Emma Gazley

As the air turns a little cooler and loved ones gather I’m finding myself returning to a creative task I have long enjoyed; baking. The joy of mixing together ingredients and seeing them transform into something beautiful, delicious and warm is something I can remember from as far back as seven years of age. My mother had been sharing some of her recipes with me, showing me how our creations developed in the oven, and she told me that just this once I could “make up” my own recipe. I didn’t understand the science behind it at all, but I knew I needed an egg or two and some flour and something sweet and as I told her what I wanted in my recipe my mother mixed and helped me and I made my first very own… cake-bread. It was kind of a cake, round and small, but the consistency was terrible. I think I can still imagine the flavor of it; bad, but intensely satisfying to me.

I offered a slice of my cake-bread to everyone who dropped by our house for the next two days, and they politely accepted while it hardened throughout and became completely inedible.

A few years later I was gifted an Easy-bake oven for Christmas, and this was satisfying in an all new way, as I was old enough to play with it without supervision, and my creations came to life far quicker than conventional baking. My affair with the Easy-bake was short lived, however. Somehow it never felt exactly like the real thing.

I wouldn’t say I baked constantly, or even consistently in high-school. I would get the itch, or a craving, and I’d wake up one day determined to make x—. Pumpkin bread with chocolate chunks. Sugar cookies that didn’t taste like they had come from a box. Fresh bread. There are many, many books written on the topic of bread alone, and for good reason as far as I’m concerned . What could be more satisfying than that tap of your loaf, the crunch of crust and the steam rising from the crumb while you spread a little butter and take a bite?

I was never very good at bread. I made some decent small loaves, and my mother and I would enjoy them with a homemade foamy caramel macchiato in the mornings on foggy days when we could barely see the valley across the hills from the back porch. My mother was always more gifted than I, though she told me repeatedly that I only needed practice.

After I had graduated, when I️ first started encountering health problems that my doctor thought would be helped by changing my nutrition, I stopped eating sugar, gluten and carbohydrates in general. Having no reason to eat what I might bake, and not being disciplined enough to see the value of the practice of baking for the sake of other’s enjoyment, I quit.

And I’m sad to say, I barely realized that something I had enjoyed so much was gone from my life. Preoccupied with other creative pursuits (painting, music, writing) and focused on healing my body, baking was an absurd luxury that would effectively poison me if it contained the ingredients I had used for years.

Several years have gone by, and just as this season is unfolding, I feel a new season approaching for myself. Though it’s hardly cold in Los Angeles, it has cooled somewhat and the air has a new flavor to it. Outside in the mornings before work, the people taking their dogs for a walk have all got sweaters and hoodies on. I’ve been craving something hot during my commute instead of my normal iced rooibos honey tea. Thanksgiving and Christmas plans are flying back and forth between relatives, and the excitement on friend’s faces as they discuss how they plan to spend the holidays is contagious.

I’ve been finding myself reminiscing lately. Nostalgia will pour over me from the smells of the Korean-Parisian bakery around the corner. I’ve caught myself in a reverie of Christmas and Thanksgiving; pecan pie and yams with crispy brown sugar crumble on top.

Meanwhile, for the past few weeks, I have become practically obsessed with watching cake decorating videos. Frosting cupcakes, fondant and decoration on a three-tier cake, special frosting tips, food color without corn syrup- these are all things in my recent search history. I’ve found certain artists (there’s just no other word for these master cake decorators) who I especially love to watch as they explain something extremely complicated and make it look very easy.

Aside from a few mild attempts at recipes that were gluten-free, paleo, sugar-free, etc, I haven’t truly rediscovered this passion for baking until now.

As I write this I have the ingredients for a cheesecake in my kitchen, ready to be mixed for my coworker’s birthday. I made carrot cake cupcakes with a cream cheese coconut sugar frosting last week, as well as white chocolate chip cookies and banana cupcakes with buttercream. Due to my health constraints I am trying to learn or create alternative solutions to some of the trickier ingredients. But I am also quite happy to make these treats for my loved ones and see their faces light up.

I am, by no means, a talented person in the kitchen. My husband has so frequently had to explain to me how not to burn toast that it’s become a household joke. Aside from quiche, chicken soup, french toast, and sweet potato fries, my repertoire is sorrowfully lean. He can throw some shrimp in a pan with some green onions and end up somehow with a delicious curry over brown rice, while I have learned the art of the sausage. In truth, I wouldn’t say I’m anything special in the baking department either.

Yet I have been finding lately that one doesn’t need to be established as good at something before trying to be better at it, and as long as my enjoyment is equal to my effort, I find immense satisfaction in leaning down over a hot oven and feeling the makeup on my face melt as I check if the muffins need any more time.

If you’ve been considering tackling a new recipe, or trying to bake something from scratch for the first time, I encourage you to give it a shot. There have been times in the past week and a half when I can safely say that using a hand mixer has saved my sanity. Coming home exhausted and still getting excited to spend some time in the kitchen is a thrill I thought I’d left behind, but coming up on the cookie season of the year my recipe list is starting to grow long.

It’s transformative to the mood. Maybe it’s the analogy of seeing ourselves churned up inside until something beautiful is created through our chaos. Or maybe it’s just because nothing is as comforting at the end of the day as a cool glass of milk and a cookie stuffed with chocolate chips.

About the Author: Emma Gazley

Emma Gazley is an artist, musician, writer, adventurer and teacher. Born to two adventurous parents, Emma was destined to be an explorer of the world, and from her earliest moments displayed signs of creativity and curiosity. She has spent time in Europe, Asia, Canada, and currently resides in the U.S. She began her journey of discovering her identity as an artist in 2012, after encountering critical health problems that caused her to lose her job and the ability to do most everyday activities. Many of her projects have, as a result of this event and others, a twinge of the painful and tragic aspects of life.

Emma is interested in learning about grief and how to cope with it, as well as passionate about finding joy in the day to day.

December 4, 2017

The Art of Hope and Resilience by Julie Terrill

This summer I finally got to go to Cuba. The island had been high on my bucket list for almost 50 years, before people called them bucket lists. My father and grandfather often referred to Cuba as The Pearl of the Antilles, shook their heads and commented what a shame it was that I would never have the opportunity to see it. That pretty much sealed the deal, sending Cuba straight to the top of the list, demoting my desire to be Evil Kenevil’s protégé to second place. Now I wanted, no, I needed, to see The Pearl for myself.

Fast forward approximately 48 years… My business coach introduced me to Mary Drobney of Cultural Journeys. Mary is a college art history professor who began leading people-to-people art education tours to Cuba 15 years ago. ( http://www.cultural-journeys.com ) Prior to our trip I visited Mary’s home, an amazing eclectic gallery of Cuban art, where she told me of the difficulties that Cuban artists face. Due to embargos art supplies are very limited and are much needed. Many of her tour participants bring supplies as gifts. Some artists obtain materials through the black market. Others creatively use alternative materials such as found objects. When resources are scarce nothing is wasted.

As a whole, Cuba values the arts. I observed a reverence for poetry, dance, music, sculpture and painting. But where, I wondered, does an artist fit into a society where jobs are provided by the government and consumer goods are sanctioned? Most tourist-type shops have the same handful of authorized items. Art is one of the few exceptions if you go to the source.

Mary seemed to know everyone. Over the course of more than 100 art tours she has forged personal relationships with numerous artists across the island. We explored national galleries of work by established artists, but what about other hopeful artists? Their work can be found at artist tables set up in parks, near attractions and UNESCO sites, as well as studios and galleries located in the artists’ homes. The Taller Experimental de Grafica is a large printmaker’s co-op amidst the maze of tangled streets of a Havana neighborhood. The large industrial space was full of great light, working artists, presses, blocks and thousands of prints. I could have happily spent days there watching, listening and learning. Begrudgingly we finally did leave, my arms cradling long cardboard tubes containing original works of the artists I met.

We saw numerous monuments to historic or political figures. But throughout the country beautiful public art is abundant in the forms of colorful murals, sculptures, intricate iron works, fountains and mosaics.

Fusterlandia, a kaleidoscopic neighborhood in the coastal town of Jaimanitas, is the urban beautification project of artist José Antonio Rodríguez Fuster. Fuster is a ceramicist, painter, illustrator, sculptor, print maker and the creator of the ultimate public art installation. Starting with his small home and studio he has transformed over 80 neighboring houses, parks, benches, walls and even swimming pools into a vibrant wonderland, which Fuster initially financed himself.

Sculptures by Martha Jimenez dot the streets near her studio in Camaguey. Jimenez portrays Cuban life in her art. He sculptures depict scenes using real-life models from the community working, gossiping, visiting on benches and a man reading his newspaper. This particular model comes out daily to read the paper next to his likeness while beaming with pride. Jimenez’s studio holds an extensive collection of paintings and prints featuring beautifully curvy women.

Music is constant in Cuba and where there is music there is dancing. Strolling troubadours, musicians sitting on their stoops and organized musical groups on stages, in courtyards or town squares fill the streets with song. Traditional Cuban music, son Cubano, combines the influences of Spanish Guitar with West African rhythm, percussion and call and response style.

And the dancing… oh the dancing… I literally danced my way across the island. I danced with street musicians. I danced with strangers who grabbed my hand to join a Conga line or whirl me into the midst of the action. I danced with children and with silver-haired gentlemen with whom I could not keep up. And on a sweltering evening in Santiago de Cuba I danced alone in an empty pedestrian mall during a brief downpour while locals ducked into doorways to wait.

A month after my trip Hurricane Irma, the second in a string of destructive hurricanes in the Caribbean, devastated the Cuban coast. Thirty-six foot waves crashed down on the island destroying 4,000 homes. Today as the hyperactive 2017 hurricane season is coming to an end, the high season for tourism should be getting underway. But many travelers have cancelled their tour and cruise plans, bringing secondary waves of devastation to already struggling communities.

Mary’s tours have resumed. Communities have come together and restoration has begun. The spirit of hope and resilience still thrives in the Cuban people. They have learned not only to adapt to the circumstances and hardships of the embargoes, but to thrive and create joy. Is Cuba on your bucket list, too? The Pearl is ready to welcome us.

About the Author: Julie Terrill

Julie Terrill is a photographer and writer with a passion for travel. For ten years, she’s told stories of empowerment through the lens of her camera in an array of unique landscapes, environments, and projects – from a shelter for children rescued from trafficking in Thailand to Faces of Courage, complimentary portrait sessions she offers to cancer patients in her community. She is a photographer and assistant facilitator at Beautiful You and Soul Restoration retreats.

Connect with her at: JMTerrillImages.com

November 28, 2017

Faith + Believe = Hope by Molly Totoro

Twinkling holiday lights reflect in the bay window as I reflect on 2017 in preparation for the New Year.

I spend November focusing on the blessings of life. I try to practice gratitude each day of the year, but the days leading up to Thanksgiving and Christmas are a time of intentional focus. I strive to give thanks not only for the blessings but the difficult times as well. I’ve lived long enough to know that our greatest failures – our worst obstacles – can prove most beneficial in the end.

When December arrives I relish the holiday festivities as I anticipate the New Year. I use this time to reflect on the past and ponder aspirations for the future.

First, I think about my 2017 word of the year – Nourish. I review what I wrote on January 1^st as an explanation for its selection:

Nourish will help me focus on physical health. I want my retirement years to be filled with quality life, not mere existence – and that requires regular exercise and a nutritional diet.

One look at the Weekly Tracker in my Bullet Journal indicates I show improvement in this area. The range of motion in my previously broken arms is nearly 100%. I exercise about four times a week and walk the dog a mile a day. While I know there is room for growth, I am pleased with the progress made.

But I wrote something else on January 1^st:

Nourish will also help me focus on mental health. I need to build myself up with positive affirmations and stop with the negative self-talk.

I didn’t fare so well in this regard. While I spent time nourishing my physical needs I continued to ignore the emotional ones. The negative self-talk was loud and unrelenting. I named the voice Delilah because she feigned friendship while plotting my demise.

In October I decided it was time to silence her constant criticism. I spent the month researching and journaling about what psychologists call “Impostor Syndrome”. I developed a series of quotes and scripture verses to use as weapons against her vehement lies. This was a necessary first step to nourishing and transforming my mind, but I know I have more work to do.

That leads me to my focus for 2018. While I have not yet committed to a single word, I have a few in mind. October’s study of positive affirmations taught me faith is a necessary component to life – not only faith in a religious sense but also faith in self. I must have faith that I was put on earth for a specific purpose, and I must have faith that I already possess the skills and talents to fulfill that purpose. Low self-esteem, it turns out, is not a demonstration of humility but rather a deterrent from living the abundant life.

While Faith is a possibility for the 2018 Word of the Year, Believe is the lead contender. Believe is more powerful. Faith is a noun – it states a condition. We have faith, but believing is putting faith in action. I don’t want a passive lifestyle. I want to step out in faith and actively pursue a creative purpose.

Delilah doesn’t like this kind of talk. Delilah wants to keep me locked away in my comfort zone. She tries to convince me this is a safe place – a desired destination. There is no pain in the comfort zone – no fear of rejection or failure – a space devoid of conflict.

Her lies hide the truth: comfort zones are prisons that keep us from becoming who we were meant to be. Trapped by our fears, we live shallow, discontented lives. We don’t try new hobbies or interests for fear we won’t be good enough. We don’t share our passions with the world for fear we won’t be accepted. We begin to shrivel up from within and die.

Believe is the antidote to these lies. It is the necessary action we must take to reclaim our authentic selves.

I believe I was created for purpose. I believe I possess the skills and talents to bring this purpose to fruition. While I know there will be setbacks and obstacles to overcome, I believe I have the self-confidence and determination to continue the journey. I believe I have something to contribute and share with the world.

As I reflect on this past year and the insights I’ve gleaned, another word comes to mind: Hope. Interestingly, hope is both a noun and a verb. We have hope – a feeling that all will work out for the best. And we also hope – believe or trust that something desired will happen.

Hope is not an expectation, which is tightly connected with a desired result. But rather, hope is the security of knowing all will be okay, regardless of the end result.

Hope is the forerunner for my 2018 Word of the Year. Hope that I will finally silence the harsh criticism of Delilah and replace it with God’s truth: I am loved. Hope that I will find the confidence to step out of that comfort zone, try new things, experience new adventures and live a creative life with unashamed joy.

About the Author: Molly Totoro

Connect with Molly at her blog, My Cozy Book Nook and on social media: FaceBook – Twitter – Instagram– Pinterest